M  5  I 

Q    


NIGHTSHADE 


BY 
CHARLES   STEVENS    REMINGTON 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


NIGHTSHADE 


BY 
CHARLES  STEVENS  REMINGTON 


NEW  YORK 
1922 


Copyright,    1922 
BY   CHARLES  STEVENS  REMINGTON 


Private  edition   of   one   hundred  copies 


Few  hearken  to  the  caws  of  grain-fed  crow 
While  carols  from  the  worm-fed  lark  o'erflow, 
But  many  are  at  pains  to  grow  the  grain 
And  never  on  the  worm  a  care  bestow. 


CONTENTS 

TITLE  PAGE 

The  Mirror  of  Mnemosyne 11 

Sequoia   19 

The  Suttee  27 

To  a  Humming  Bird 33 

An  Arab  Maid 37 

Virtue 43 

Death  Valley 47 

Ego   51 

The  Chalice 55 

Life    59 

The  Potter 63 

The  Sage 67 

At  Parting 71 


THE  MIRROR  OF  MNEMOSYNE 


11 


It  was  late  in  a  day  at  the  end  of  my  life 
That  I  sat  in  a  wood  out  of  turmoil  and  strife 

Where  the  light  was  subdued  by  the  shade, 
For  the  leaves  of  a  maple  were  laced  with  a  larch 
In  an  emerald  fabric  that  curved  in  an  arch 

O'er  a  crystalline  pool  in  a  glade. 

'Twas  a  wood  where  the  shadows  were  trellised  on  gleams 
And  it  promised  rewards  for  the  stalking  of  dreams 

From  their  crevices  carelessly  strayed; 
'Twas  an  hour  when  an  errant  afar  from  its  cave 
Might  be  lured  to  this  nook  in  the  water  to  lave, 

And  I  studied  the  pool  in  the  glade. 

On  the  lining  of  moss  in  the  richest  of  green 

That  embroidered  the  slopes  with  a  shimmering  sheen, 

Lay  the  form  of  a  beautiful  maid; 
'Twas  an  image  to  hold  an  observer  in  spell, 
As  she  lay  on  her  side  like  a  delicate  shell 

In  the  depth  of  the  pool  in  the  glade. 

She  had  folded  her  arms  in  the  form  of  a  nest 
Where  her  face  was  concealed,  but  her  virginal  breast 

Was  so  clear  that  I  sat  there  afraid, 
And  her  hair  of  the  color  of  leaves  in  the  fall 
Had  enveloped  her  waist  with  a  gossamer  shawl, 

As  she  lay  in  the  pool  in  the  glade. 


13 


I  arose  in  the  hope  of  espying  a  trace 

Of  the  maiden  whose  image  was  cast  with  such  grace 

That  the  picture  in  death  could  not  fade, 
But  the  light  from  the  heavens  that  restfully  shone 
On  the  water  convinced  me  that  I  was  alone 

By  the  side  of  the  pool  in  the  glade. 

Then  the  ferns  were  caressed  by  the  breath  of  a  sprite 
And  the  depth  of  the  water  was  hid  from  my  sight 

By  the  ripples  that  plaintively  played, 
But  the  calm  that  ensued  left  the  maid  in  her  place 
And  I  knew  her  at  once  as  she  turned  her  fair  face 

From  the  moss  in  the  pool  in  the  glade. 

As  my  revery  followed  the  path  of  the  years 

In  a  search  for  the  hopes  that  were  buried  in  fears, 

It  retreated  until  it  was  stayed, 
And  a  wandering  memory  crept  from  the  past ; 
From  the  distance  it  drew  till  I  saw  it  at  last 

In  the  depth  of  the  pool  in  the  glade. 

Ah,  it  seemed  but  a  day  since  the  maid  on  the  moss 
Had  uncovered  a  pillow  of  satin  and  floss, 

That  in  fold  upon  fold  she  had  laid, 
For  the  couch  of  her  love,  which  the  roseate  gold 
Of  her  hair  was  a  glistening  sheet  to  enfold, 

Ere  she  passed  to  the  pool  in  the  glade. 


On  the  word  of  her  Christ  that  her  love  made  her  whole, 
To  her  lips  she  entrusted  her  life  and  her  soul, 

And  she  gave  in  the  spirit  she  prayed, 
But  her  life  was  as  fleet  as  the  kiss  of  her  breath 
And  it  followed  her  soul  to  voluptuous  death 

In  the  depth  of  the  pool  in  the  glade. 

She  was  still  in  her  youth  when  her  slumbering  fires 
Were  ignited  by  God,  for  her  flaming  desires 

In  the  highest  of  heavens  were  made, 
But  a  man  in  the  making  is  naught  but  a  fool 
And  he  left  her  to  pine  and  her  worship  to  cool 

In  the  depth  of  the  pool  in  the  glade. 

'Twas  the  form  of  the  goddess  of  maidenly  love 
That  I  saw  by  the  light  from  the  heavens  above, 

But  the  soul  was  a  seraph  betrayed, 
And  I  wept  in  my  grief  as  I  thought  of  the  end 
Of  a  life  that  the  angels  unfolded  to  blend 

With  the  life  in  the  pool  in  the  glade. 

Then  a  shadow  fell  full  on  her  maidenly  charms, 
But  it  passed  and  she  opened  her  beckoning  arms 

With  a  gesture  I  swiftly  obeyed; 
And  I  knew  when  we  met,  as  the  dead  may  divine, 
That  her  love  like  her  life  had  been  riven  from  mine, 

And  I  lie  in  the  pool  in  the  glade. 


17 


SEQUOIA 


19 


Within  the  fecund  womb  of  earth, 

A  seed,  it  had  no  voice ; 
No  wish  nor  thought  it  had  of  birth 

But  grew  and  knew  no  choice. 

It  lay  at  quiet  in  the  dark 

Below  the  world  of  storms, 
Nor  missed  the  wraps  of  bough  and  bark 

But  grew  at  peace  with  worms. 

Allured  at  last  from  mother  night 

By  gifts  of  rain  and  sun, 
It  drew  itself  toward  the  light 

And  smiled  at  life  begun. 

It  saw  the  flowers  of  early  May 

And  heard  the  thrush's  lilt; 
It  saw  the  squirrels  at  their  play, 

The  nests  the  partridge  built. 

It  saw  the  flower  die  for  the  weed 

And  both  die  for  the  deer; 
It  saw  the  bird  consume  the  seed 

And  starve  another  year. 

In  time  it  saw  the  eagle's  flight 
From  mountain  peak  to  peak; 

It  heard  the  noises  of  the  night, 
The  puma's  mournful  shriek. 


21 


It  saw  the  bird  die  for  the  bird 
And  screech  put  song  to  flight; 

It  saw  the  herd  die  for  the  herd 
And  beast  hold  beast  in  fright. 

Four  thousand  years  it  braved  the  sleet, 
The  blast,  the  blow,  the  snow; 

Four  thousand  years  it  breathed  the  heat 
And  fought  to  live  and  grow. 

It  saw  the  lightning's  fatal  flash 
And  met  the  tempest's  pour; 

Withstood  the  whirlwind's  raving  crash, 
The  thunder's  deafening  roar. 

Its  roots  embraced  a  mountain  place 

As  stout  as  half  the  world, 
And  from  its  mighty  anchored  base 

By  naught  it  could  be  hurled. 

Four  thousand  years  it  looped  its  rings 
While  nations  came  and  went; 

And  lived  to  lay  a  thousand  kings 
While  creeds  like  reeds  were  bent. 

It  saw  a  race  die  for  a  race 

And  both  die  for  a  lie; 
A  god  usurp  another's  place 

And  for  another  die. 


From  beasts  and  men  and  gods  it  grew 

Until  it  reached  the  sky, 
And  from  its  height  amid  the  blue 

It  asked  a  planet,  "Why?" 

When  secrets  of  the  stars  it  knew 
The  green  of  hope  went  brown, 

And  madness  from  the  moon  it  drew, 
Whence  fell  a  silver  crown. 

Asleep  at  last,  from  struggle  freed, 
An  outline  black  and  blurred, 

It  dreamed  it  was  a  wasted  seed 
That  went  to  feed  a  bird. 


THE  SUTTEE 


So  beautiful  that  I  can  feel  you  sleep! 

And  thus  you  slept  until  you  made  me  bride. 
So  beautiful  that  I  am  loath  to  weep! 

Ah,  Love!    This  night,  beloved  of  death,  you  died. 

Across  the  court  awaits  the  eager  pyre, 
And  in  the  hour  I  go,  a  choiceless  mate, 

To  place  my  hand  in  hand  of  lustful  fire 
That  burns  an  universal  love  to  hate. 

Ah,  Love !  You  came — a  god  congealed  in  ice 

That  thawed  against  my  cheek,  upon  my  breast — 

A  god  that  warmed  and  waked  within  a  vise 
Of  molten  flesh  with  fiery  fiends  possessed! 

I  found  you  in  a  cultivated  close 

And  raised  you  from  your  pallet,  undefiled, 
Of  pallid  petals  from  the  sexless  rose, 

To  make  our  bed  in  brambles  rank  and  wild. 

My  soul  was  on  your  lips,  bekissed  of  mine, 

And  tongue  of  flame  was  shot  to  tongue  of  flame, 

Until  I  lay — my  love,  my  life,  myself  divine — 
In  coma  that  has  never  had  a  name ! 

I  thought  you  only  had  the  power  of  death 
Until  I  found  it  joined  with  power  of  life. 

Oh,  Love!  Oh,  Love!  When  woman's  quickened  breath 
Possesses  her  and  then — the  lightning's  wife! 


29 


I  was  the  anvil  underneath  your  blows 

That  rang  and  rang  and,  ringing,  left  their  scars 

Until  the  heated,  softened  surface,  rose 
And  pink,  became  the  birthplace  of  the  stars! 

Embraced,  enclasped,  I  strove  to  offer  birth 

To  gods,  and  wove  a  plan,  not  woven  in  wombs, 

To  give  through  you  all  given  me  of  worth, 
But  bore  our  biers  in  shadow  of  our  tombs. 

Ah,  Love!  'Tis  less  than  shell — 'tis  less  than  shade 
Of  her  you  knew  who  prostitutes  the  pyre: 

Not  even  ashes  that  my  lava  made 
Remain  to  make  a  jest  with  foolish  fire. 

But  no!  'Tis  endless  chaos  that  I  greet — 
That  would  the  phantom  of  my  love  entice. 

My  madness  made  the  pyre,  since  all  the  heat 
Of  Hell  was  spent  in  melting  Heaven's  ice. 


TO  A  HUMMING  BIRD 


Ever  darting,  stopping,  starting, 

Joyless,  if  at  all,  in  flight; 
Spending  playtime  after  Maytime, 

None  has  life  so  blithe  and  light. 

Robes  the  brightest,  cares  the  lightest 
Ever  worn  by  feathered  folk; 

Taste  the  sweetest,  wings  the  fleetest, 
Never  you  the  echoes  woke. 

Flowers  in  cluster  lack  your  luster, 
Dainty,  dancing,  darting  bird, 

But  we,  listening  for  you,  glistening, 
Never  once  your  carol  heard. 

Ever  questing,  never  resting, 
With  the  gayest  you  belong, 

But  the  honey  in  your  sunny 

Spirit  chokes  the  spring  of  song. 


AN  ARAB  MAID 


It  was  dusk  in  a  desert  oasis 

Where  the  caravan  camped  for  the  night; 
In  this  spot  in  the  widest  of  spaces 

Was  a  maiden  apparelled  in  white. 

By  her  side  was  a  palm  like  a  sentry 
In  an  outpost  afar  from  its  tribe, 

But  in  silence  to  one  it  gave  entry 
For  he  offered  his  love  as  a  bribe. 

Unrelieved  by  a  season  of  dun  days 

Where  the  night  was  the  cloud  and  the  shade, 

The  retort  of  the  tropical  sun-rays 
Had  embosomed  itself  in  the  maid. 

Like  the  hope  that  no  hope  can  awaken 
When  but  one  is  adrift  on  the  sea, 

Was  her  passion  by  passion  forsaken 

For  it  breathed  of  the  breath  of  the  tree. 

As  she  danced  in  the  eyes  of  her  lover, 
To  his  plea  she  was  moveless  and  mute, 

For  she  looked  in  her  longing  above  her 
Where  the  branches  were  barren  of  fruit. 


It  was  dusk  in  another  oasis 

Where  the  caravan  camped  with  the  day, 
But  the  noon  of  the  desert's  embraces 

With  the  maiden  had  lingered  to  play. 


From  the  circle  of  shadows  around  her 

Came  the  music  of  wind  through  the  palms, 

And  the  voice,  as  the  melody  found  her, 
Was  the  voice  of  her  love  singing  psalms. 

When  her  thirst  had  discovered  a  water 
Of  a  spring  where  a  maiden  could  quaff, 

Like  the  palms  from  which  miracles  wrought  her, 
She  regaled  and  refreshed  with  a  laugh. 

Then  the  man  disappeared  with  the  moonlight, 
But  the  maid  was  unmoved  as  he  went, 

And  she  lay  through  the  length  of  the  June  night 
With  a  lining  of  stars  in  her  tent; 

For  she  gazed  at  the  languorous  palm  trees 
As  they  leaned  on  the  leaves  of  their  mates, 

And  her  bosom  was  cooled  by  a  balm  breeze 
That  was  wafted  through  clusters  of  dates. 


41 


VIRTUE 


43 


A  shadow  speaks  with  vacant  voice  to  chide 
The  faultless  Hands,  unseen  upon  the  side, 
That  slide  the  film  of  love  while  shadows  glide 
Across  my  screen,  that  others  may  abide. 


45 


DEATH  VALLEY 

(A  CaUforman  Landscape) 


47 


Above,  a  ceaseless,  cloudless  sky — 
Not  blue  but  bleaching  white — 

Reflects  the  aching  alkali 
Till  death  suspends  in  night. 

Below  the  level  of  the  sea, 

The  plain  lies  torn  and  rent, 
But,  cringing,  it  can  never  free 

Itself  till  suns  are  spent. 

The  mountains  rear  their  roasting  \stones 

Against  the  scorching  sky — 
The  cracking  skulls  and  crumbling  bones 

Of  worlds  long  since  gone  dry. 

A  lifeless  plant  protects  the  gate 

With  needless,  spiny  knife — 
A  sentry,  dead,  but  doomed  to  wait 

And  stab  a  phantom  life. 

Above,  there  soars  no  bird  on  wing 
With  beak  that  feeds  on  death ; 

Below,  if  breathe  a  creeping  thing, 
It  breathes  with  poison-breath. 

In  other  lands  the  green  will  sear, 

The  lakes  and  rivers  dry, 
But  this  commands  the  heights  of  cheer, 

For,  dead,  it  cannot  die. 


49 


EGO 


51 


One  love  of  loves  is  all  I  call  my  own — 

A  love  that's  worn  a  surplice  and  a  stole 

And  sung  my  moods  a  soft  and  hopeful  psalm. 

Afar  in  northern  cold  and  left  alone, 

I've  wound  around  my  life  the  woolen  roll 

Whose  warmth  was  gentle  through  the  awful  calm 

Of  slumber,  nearest  death  that  love  has  known, 

Amid  the  floes  and  snows  about  the  pole. 

The  only  awning  oft  has  been  the  palm 

Of  memory,  when  drifting  sands  were  blown 

And  suns  drove  love  to  burrow  with  the  mole. 

If  after  all  of  snows  and  suns  the  balm 

Of  mercy  soothe,  and  I  must  naught  atone, 

One  love  will  then  have  borne  above  my  soul. 


THE  CHALICE 


There's  a  cup  for  my  joy  and  my  gladness 
When  life  in  its  morn  is  yet  early, 

When,  smilingly,  Alice  upraises  a  chalice — 
A  chalice  all  ruby  and  pearly. 

There's  a  cup  for  my  sorrow  and  sadness 
When  life  has  gone  grey  in  its  ashes, 

When  violet  Alice  upraises  a  chalice — 
A  chalice  of  starlets  and  lashes. 

There's  a  cup  for  my  frenzy  and  madness 
When  Fury  enfolds  and  encloses, 

When  crimsoning  Alice  proposes  a  chalice — 
A  chalice  of  petals  of  roses. 


LIFE 


59 


The  swollen  stream  that  breaks  its  banks  in  flood, 
Collecting  toll  in  treasure  and  in  blood, 
Deposits  on  the  land  its  vital  mud 
Whence  springs  anew  a  wealth  of  blade  and  bud. 

But  I,  who  see  the  mote  and  not  the  beam, 
Who  have  no  light  that  sheds  an  inner  gleam, 
Who  see  no  silt  suspended  in  the  stream, 
Protect  the  plains  that  with  the  dying  teem. 

To  me  the  dead  and  verdant  look  alike 
And,  knowing  not  whereat  the  flood  may  strike, 
I  build  along  the  shore  an  earthen  dyke 
To  turn  the  silt  that  feeds  the  ear  and  spike. 

I  see  upon  the  flood  a  fallen  tree 

And,  knowing  not  another  tree  'twould  be, 

I  labor  blindly  to  enrich  the  lea 

By  guiding  half  the  riches  to  the  sea. 


61 


THE  POTTER 


She  set  her  hand  to  make  a  shape  of  clay — 
A  fair  and  wondrous  bowl  wherein  her  golden  soul 
Could  find  repose  till  called  on  judgment  day — 

And,  when  her  life  to  this  attempt  was  bound, 
With  hand  inspired  and  fine  she  gave  to  every  line 
The  grace  that  in  her  limbs  and  breast  she  found. 

When  every  art  to  which  she  might  aspire 
Was  given  to  the  bowl,  she  cast  within  her  soul 
And  trusted  both  to  chance  of  fickle  fire; 

But  Fate,  in  looking  on  the  burning  bowl, 
Decreed  the  time  was  ill  and  in  the  potter's  kiln, 
For  too  much  love  of  beauty,  burned  her  soul. 


THE  SAGE 


To  him  who  dwells  in  lofty  solitude 

Where  frills  and  folds  of  Life  cannot  obtrude, 

Where  sounds  are  low  and  hushed  and  lights  subdued, 

Life  comes;  before  him  stands  ashamed  and  nude. 

As  Life,  undraped,  abashed,  before  him  stands, 
Her  shoulders  bare  between  her  silken  strands, 
Upon  her  flesh  he  sees  the  jailer's  brands 
And  hides  his  aching  eyes  behind  his  hands. 


69 


AT  PARTING 


Madeleine :  Here  are  we  watching  depressively 
Flames  in  the  grate  as  they  kindle  caressively — 
Watching  unhopefully,  wearily,  drearily. 
Fond  is  the  fire  that  is  burning  so  cheerily- 
Burning  its  heart  with  bravado  and  fearlessness. 
Little  it  feels  of  the  following  cheerlessness. 

See!  Sap  escapes  from  the  log  now  and,  simmering, 
Plays  on  the  flames  as  they,  flickering,  glimmering, 
Whisper  with  lips  that  are  moistened  but  amorous. 
Vaporous  drapery  hiding  the  glamorous 
Coloring  falls  and  the  flames  that  leap  glaringly 
See  not  the  end  of  the  log  they  eat  daringly. 

Cold  are  the  flames  that  fly  flashingly,  flaringly ; 
Back  of  them  see  we  the  blackness  despairingly; 
Sharp  as  the  cracklings  are,  hear  we  the  dreariness ; 
Warm  as  the  waves  may  roll,  feel  we  the  weariness : 
Cold  are  the  tongues  that  lap  roughly  but  playfully ; 
After  them  sense  we  the  dulness  dismayfully. 


Cradled  in  vaporous  down,  we  are  dreamingly 
Floating  above  while  this  love  of  ours  seemingly 
Bears  us  along  in  the  currents  of  yesterday — 
Currents  where,  sporting,  we  flew  in  the  quest  of  play. 
Feel  you  the  breaths  of  love  fanning  us  airily, 
Airily  kissing,  caressing  us  f airily? 


There  in  our  fancies  again  are  we  dallying, 
Waiting  and  hoping  the  winds  may  be  rallying 
Forces  that  rest  in  the  torrid  but  hidden  isles — 
Forces  that  sleep  in  the  guarded,  forbidden  isles. 
There  in  our  fancies  again  are  we  tarrying, 
Hoping  the  tempest  a  flash  may  be  carrying. 

There,  where  the  vortex  was  velvet  and  ravishing, 
Dust  of  the  hurricane's  lust  on  us  lavishing ; 
There,  where  the  winds  were  so  hot  and  uproarious, 
Wafting  a  warmth  to  the  soul  that  was  glorious ; 
There,  where  the  kiss  of  the  tempest  was  maddening, 
Now  is  the  void  of  the  calm  that  is  saddening. 

Oft,  when  the  currents  were  fondling  us  feelingly, 
Brushing  and  touching,  embracing  appealingly, 
Gave  we  no  thought  to  the  courses  or  reckoning — 
Saw  we  no  vacuums  vacantly  beckoning. 
Thus,  as  the  winds  bore  us  wrongfully,  rightfully, 
Death  is  a  witness,  they  bore  us  delightfully. 


Madeleine :  Here  are  we  looking  so  fearfully 
Into  the  dark  while  we  fix  our  eyes  tearfully, 
Sadly,  where  once  we  saw  coals  glowing  pleasantly- 
Coals  that  in  ashes  will  choke  and  die  presently. 
See  you  the  light  that  was  flashing  so  vividly 
Flashes  again?    But  it  flashes  now  lividly. 


I  have  had  all  of  the  flame  and  the  flare  of  it, 
All  of  the  gleam  and  the  glamorous  glare  of  It; 
You  have  had  all  of  the  blast  and  the  blaze  of  it; 
All  of  the  fire  and  the  rapturous  craze  of  it; 
Yesterday  held  and  yet  holds  all  the  blend  of  us; 
Morrow  there's  none — 'tis  the  end,  'tis  the  end  of  us. 

Looking  in  sockets  so  dull  in  their  stoniness, 
Gripping  on  fingers  so  white  in  their  boniness, 
Leaving  the  ash  that  no  longer  glows  rosily, 
Off  for  a  grate  that  will  always  burn  cosily, 
Moving  off  vapidly,  rapidly,  glidingly, 
Forth  we  go,  down  we  go,  dwelling  abidingly. 


11 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-42m-8,'49(B5573)444 


THE  LIBRARY 


Nightshade 


HZBlh 


PS 

3535 

R28ln 


